


Dark of the Morning

by underpressure



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Historical, Emotional Manipulation, Louis and Nick's relationship is in the past, M/M, Molly House, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 06:02:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4252125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/underpressure/pseuds/underpressure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis recognizes him immediately, floral coat and sweaty curls around his temples. His eyes, green and doe-like, watch Louis, trace over his frame in a way that almost sends a shiver down Louis’ spine. No one has ever look at him like that before, he’s sure of it. // alternatively, a story about finding a home in a person and realizing that love is something that everyone deserves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark of the Morning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [photo41](https://archiveofourown.org/users/photo41/gifts).



> The prompt was "a stereotypical coffee shop Au- EXCEPT it's set during the time the ORIGINAL coffee shops started popping up- the coffee houses of 17th century europe," so obviously I got a little carried away. They do talk about serving coffee, so maybe you can forgive me for the artistic choices that I made. I hope this is everything that you wanted, even if maybe you didn't know you wanted it. 
> 
> I would be no where without my sweet beta,[Laura](http://draculauralou.tumblr.com/), who worked with me even when she was out of town. Though she said she would take the credit for any mistakes, I'm also at fault. If you see any problems, be sure to point them out to me after the reveal and I'll take care of them. Thanks again, Laura, for being such a peach. I hope I get to work with you again!
> 
> And last, I have to state that Nick Grimshaw is not a mean man. He's very nice and very funny and probably not an emotionally abusive asshole. It just so happens that in this work of fiction, he is. Please note that I have never been in an abusive relationship and if you think that I've made a mistake, let me know after the reveal. I'd love to fix something if I've made a mistake. And of course, if you find anything in the tags triggering, please do not read. I care more about your mental state than kudos or bookmarks. 
> 
> I hope you like it. xx

When Louis steps off the train in Holborn, it’s chucking it down with rain. The sky is overcast and Louis is a bit afraid that this weather is warning him of the rough patches ahead, or perhaps reminding of the ones that he’d already been through. Pulling his thin coat tighter around his frame, he looks over the shoulders of people picking their bag from the pile of them on the wet cement. His bag is easy to find, as it has been his for at least twelve years now. He knows it well, especially after Charlotte fixed the hole in the side with a patch of blue fabric. His bag is worn, roughened with use unlike those of his fellow passengers. 

Liam is waiting for him just outside the train station. His doe eyes watching Louis’ every move as he runs for a hug. In Doncaster, Liam and Louis had been best friends. Liam had visited his great aunt every summer and, during the eight summers that his aunt was alive, Liam had spent the majority of his time with Louis. They had been fast friends, chasing each other through the cobbled streets of Doncaster, stealing bites of cakes from Ms. Hallwell’s bakery and sharing secrets in the dark of Louis’ bedroom while the rest of their families were dreaming away. Liam was the first person to ever know about Louis’ secret, the reason that he had to leave Doncaster and join his friend to start over. 

Liam’s hugs haven’t changed over their time apart. The fact that Liam can remain the same when everything else is so different from how it has always been makes Louis never want to let go. 

“How’re ya, Lou? Train ride good?” Liam asks, gently breaking their embrace with a quick pat on Louis’ back. He takes a deep breath, smiling as brightly as he can.

“Yeah, good. Got a right snooze in, didn’t I? Ready to keep you up all night,” Louis replies, smiling so hard that his cheeks hurt. It’s been at least two years since he’s seen Liam; he had really missed him. The letters that they had exchanged were nothing compared to face-to-face interaction. Now, Louis could smack Liam round the head when he went on and on about how his roommate probably did not share the same feelings that he did, rather than just writing a “ _don’t be fucking stupid_ ” back. 

“No worries about that. Zayn always stays up during the night. He’s a painter,” Liam tells him, as if Louis doesn’t already know everything about Zayn already. Zayn is Liam’s roommate. He’s apparently all dark hair, tan skin and mysterious personality. It doesn’t surprise Louis that Zayn is Liam’s type. Liam always had a penchant for wanting everything that his parent’s didn’t. Louis knew a lot about Zayn, like that he was a painter, drank coffee like it was on the decline and stayed up until all hours of the night. 

“Yeah, I know that already. Alright, love, enough of the train station. Show me the flat now.” 

It’s drizzling as Liam leads them through the streets of Holborn, pointing out small shops and coffee houses as they walk through. There are plenty more coffee houses in Holborn than in Doncaster, which is exciting for Louis. He’d always been a fan of the idea of a place where he could sit around people and drink tea. Then again, he’d often been kicked out of the one in Donny because he was much too loud for places where people wanted quiet while they sipped at their bitter drinks.

“This is where Zayn spends most of his time. It’s a small coffee house, like. Lots of folks like us, yaknow?” Liam tries to be vague but Louis gets the message. Donny hadn’t had a place like that, a place for people like him. Hell, besides for the scum that he knew, he probably was one of two of them in Doncaster. Maybe even in the whole of Yorkshire. 

Beside the tiny house, and it really does look more like a house than a coffee house, there is a tavern beside it with a sign that says “Bunch o’Grapes” in a fancy paint. On the other side is an arch. Liam leads them under the arch, down another alley and then up some steps until they reach a small building. It’s clearly just behind the house that Liam had just shown him and that fact makes him a little nervous. 

As if Liam can read his mind, he says, “Know it’s a bit close, but Zayn really does go there often. He knows a guy, an Irish lad that works there. Keeps it interesting, he says.” 

Liam unlocks the door with a silver key, letting Louis make his way in first. The flat is a mess, nothing like he’d ever seen in the fancy home of Liam’s great aunt in the times that he was allowed to enter her overly clean sitting room. Liam’s great aunt had always told him to keep “ol’ riff raff” off the white carpet. He scoffs at the memory, looking down at his dirty stampers. They definitely weren’t too dirty to step on the floors of Liam’s flat. 

There are a ton of canvases lying about, some of them fully covered in paint and some of them with only slight patches of color. The couch looks like it’s been found in the back of a building, with slight holes bitten by knits in the corners. It was very plain, which Louis was sad to say he was quite used to. There were little glass trays with cigarette butts mushed into them on nearly every flat surface. Louis smirked at that, remembering when he and Liam would sneak cigarettes and then Liam would feel guilty over it for days. Obviously some things had changed.

“I know it’s not… it’s not me Aunt Maudie’s house but it’s home innit?” Liam smiles at him, hand resting on the jutting bone of his shoulder. He looks back over the room, taking in the stacks of beaten books and dirty rug laid crooked in the middle of the floor. 

“It’s home.” 

Liam and Zayn shared the flat with another person that Liam had never mentioned in any of his letters. He was an Irish fellow, the one that Zayn was said to have spent a good amount of time with at the coffee house around the other side of the street. “He doesn’t always sleep here, but when he does come back, he always brings food,” Liam had said about him. He was called Niall, Liam had told him.

The bedroom, as there was only one, held two mattresses divided by a desk. Liam told him that Zayn and he would probably share, but if Niall came back then they would be expected to switch up. Louis didn’t mind. The beds were small and called for people to sleep close together, practically on top of one another. “Of course you could take the couch if you like, sometimes it gets too hot to bother with sharing,” Liam told him.

The room had one window on the far wall with a large quilt thrown over the top. The quilt was meant to block out the early sun, which rose to look right in on them in their beds. However, it wasn’t much use as there were two large holes that allowed the sun to peak through. Zayn was still in bed, lying flat on his stomach as the sun laid out on his back in stripes. Liam sighed over him, saying that Louis could always come in and out of the room. Zayn slept like the dead, he said. 

“The kitchen is down the hall. We all have to share, because they had built this as a giant flat but… Well, London is over-populated, as it is, innit? You’ll love the girls next door though. They bring fellas back every night. They aren’t loud though; really considerate and that.”

Louis wonders if it is worth it to write back to his mother and tell her that he’s living in a house with prostitutes that is just down the street from a coffee house for homosexuals. She would certainly be crying of her morning tea if she read that. Instead, he hugs Liam tightly in thanks and heads to the shared bathroom to have a quick wash. Liam tells him that Zayn will be awake before long and that they can venture over to the coffee house. 

“Maybe they’ll have some places open for you to do some work. They usually need people behind the bar,” Liam told him, handing over a rough bit of fabric as a towel. The water doesn’t really go all the way warm, not like the bath at his home in Donny. Even with six other siblings, there was always hot water. It had been amazing, especially for long soaks after he had helped his father out in their sheep pastures. The bathtub has a ring around the rim, dark brown like the person that was in last had been rolling in the muck of the streets for the past few evenings. He wipes at it with his hands, but can’t seem to make a dent. He’s left to just run the water and decide to not look at it. The water doesn’t go completely hot, but it’s warm enough that he can stand to duck his head under and wash his face without losing his breath. When he steps out, a shiver makes its way down his spine. He brings a hand up to push his hair out of his face, drying it with the towel as best he can. With the towel wrapped back around his waist, Louis makes his way down the hall back to his new room. It’s only then that he notices that London has a faint smell, like that of a sewer and wet horses. Louis supposes that it is now just the smell of home. 

He meets Zayn after he’s thrown own some wrinkled clothes form his bag. Zayn is just as Liam has described, with wild hair and a sharp jaw. His fingers are stained with coal and paints. His face has a few smudges of soot on it, which Liam identifies with the fact that Zayn cleans chimneys with some boys from the pub. Zayn dresses in a quick fashion, running his fingers through his dirty hair before they leave.

“So you’re from up Whipshire right?” Zayn asks, cigarette settled between his lips as they wait for Liam to lock up the door behind him. Louis nods, hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat, still slightly damp from the walk earlier. 

“Me too, mate.” 

“Really? Where ‘bouts?” Louis had never really seen a Pakistani up in Yorkshire. There weren’t really about very much. He answers with Bradford, a place that Louis never been. Zayn doesn’t seem like the type to really elaborate so Louis leaves it, feels fine to fall in step with the other two men as they go back down the steps, round the alley and under the arch back to the house. 

The inside of the coffee house is full of mainly men, though Louis spots a few women in a far corner all huddled together. There is a large dance floor where a few tables are set up, men occupying the majority of them. A bar is set up in one corner and more tables around it. A woman is behind the bar, directing a young blond with a tray of teacups. Around the house, there are men of all different classes, dressed in all different ways. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a chap about his age leading an older man up the stairs behind him. 

“This is…” He starts, but is cut off by the young blond, this time without the tray. 

“Zee, what’s going on?” He asks with the thickest Irish accent that Louis almost misses the sentence entirely, which is fine because in the time it takes for him to work that out the boy is in front of them and leaning forward to kiss Zayn square on the lips. Louis is almost taken aback, wants to flee for a moment. Surely, no one is fat headed enough to kiss someone, let alone someone of the same sex, in such a public place. It is like Louis’ heart stops beating in his chest, like it clams up just as the men kiss. While Louis is floundering, no one else pays them any mind. He looks around at all the faces, young and old, and not one man is bothered by the display. For the first he notices the pair of men in the corner, one with his flies open and the other working his hand in a fashion that would be familiar to any man. Louis swallows the heavy lump in his throat. 

Zayn kisses the blond boy back rather enthusiastically for someone who seemed quite uninterested in life just a few seconds ago. Louis spares a glance at Liam and suddenly remembers all of the loving words that he had read in nearly all of Liam’s letters. Liam’s face is blank, completely unmoving as he watches the scene before him. By his sides, his fists are clenched tight. Louis clears his throat. 

Zayn pulls away from the kiss and turns to them saying, “Niall, this is Louis.” 

Niall shakes his hand in greeting before leaning in to kiss Liam hello as well, though it’s not anyway near as passionate as the one he gave Zayn. He offers to get them drinks, so they follow him through the numerous men until they are all leaning over the bar and Niall is messing around behind the bar. 

“Niall, do you know if Ms. Clap is wanting anyone new in the shop? Louis just got into town and he’ll be needin’ a job soon,” Liam says, taking the small teacup as Niall slides it over to him. 

“Ye, she’s usually in need of a new chap. They leave as soon as they come usually. I’ll chat her up tonight about it, yeah? I’ll come round to let you know tonight,” Niall answers, finishing up their drinks and leaving them as he goes back around the room with his tray now in hand. 

Liam finds them a table in the far corner, leading them over so they can sit down and enjoy their drinks. Louis watches as men come in and out, some in groups and others alone. The bar has an air of relaxation about it, as if no one is ever worried when they come in. A sinking sensation comes about in Louis’ stomach as he watches one man come into the coffee house. His hair looks lax, as though it’s just been relieved of the heavy weight of one of the white wigs that all of the nobles wear. His coat is made of a floral print, one that accentuates the paleness of his skin while highlighting the pretty blush that is settled over his cheekbones. He’s never seen anyone quite as beautiful.

The man greets Niall with an embrace and kiss to the cheek, laughing at something the Irishman says. When the pair turn to go back to the bar, the man whips his curls about his head and ends up making eye contact with Louis. The sinking feeling comes back but this time in a swooping way that catches Louis’ breath and leaves him feel a bit tingly all over. Louis breaks eye contact, turning back to the conversation. It is absolutely no use for him to get attached to someone here, especially after what had happened before. He couldn’t let that happened to him again. He couldn’t. 

++

Louis does get a job at the coffee house down the road from Liam’s flat. Well, it’s his flat too, but it feels much more like it’s Liam’s flat. On his first day of work, Niall shows him the ropes after introducing him to his boss. Margaret Clap is a stout woman, with a smile that never fades. She hugs him close, rubbing his back like his mother always did and he can’t help but tear up a bit within her arms. If she or Niall notices, neither of them says anything. Instead, she shoos him off with a “You’ll be fine, love. You’ll fit right in” that manages to unnerve more than comfort him. 

Niall shows him how to make the tea and how much ale or gin they should serve per glass. He familiarizes himself with the processes and the prices as much as possible but men are constantly coming up to get something from Niall, meaning that the boy has to leave Louis to help the others out. He’s left standing, waiting on Niall to make a round with his tray tucked beneath his arm. His eyes are trained to his feet as he attempts to remain under the radar, biding time until Niall returns. It’s a tap on the bar that forces to look up. 

Louis recognizes him immediately, floral coat and sweaty curls around his temples. His eyes, green and doe-like, watch Louis, trace over his frame in a way that almost sends a shiver down Louis’ spine. No one has ever look at him like that before, he’s sure of it. 

“Hello, could I get a cuppa please? Milk, one sugar.” 

Tea. Louis knows a good deal about tea, has been drinking it for a while now. His mother had called it a drink for the lower classes, one that was for people who weren’t able to afford the pleasures of grander beverages. It was always in their cupboards. Thinking about it, Louis is a bit plebian anyway. He’s sure that tea suits him fine. He tries to remember what Niall taught him, turning to grab a cup and saucer from the shelf behind him. He goes through the motions, performing just as Niall had and soon he’s sliding the saucer onto the bar. The man smiles at him, giving thanks with a nod of his head before turning to make his way up the stairs. At the top, Louis watches him reach for a key in his pocket, before disappearing down the hall. When Niall returns, Louis is desperate to satisfy his curiosity, but he cannot force his tongue to part his lips. Instead, he serves gin and ale and tea and coffee until he feels like falling over. 

Later that evening, Louis leans back into his lukewarm bath and flexes his toes against the ring around the white of the tub. At home, his sisters are surely taking turns plaiting each other’s hair and begging their mother for a tale of far away places like London or Paris. He misses sitting amongst them, cuddling them all before bed. He misses his lovely bed at home, his friends, his life before Nick. A racking shiver breaks down his spine and Louis takes a deep breath, clenches his eyes shut and ducks beneath the water. He breathes out, water bubbling up from his mouth. 

++

Louis’ job at Margaret Clap’s coffee house scares him everyday. Nameless men and women and the in-between come through the doors at all hours of the day, pulling each other up the stairs to the bedrooms and the chapel room. He’s watched men cry into each other’s shoulders, seen them dance with one another, noticed them fondling one another. At any moment, Louis fears the inevitable. Sodomy, as he knows, is a crime punishable by hanging or imprisonment. It is a call for immediate ostracization. 

In Doncaster, he had heard the bone chilling sermons on the fires of hell, the fires that engulfed the promiscuous, the lecherous and the immoral. He had felt the sweat bead on his upper lip when he remembered the way he had been with Nick, the way that he was. He wasn’t naïve. Louis knew exactly who he was and, while he felt that nothing was wrong with him really, he knew that people would do to him if they knew as well. That’s why working at the coffee house scared him so; at any moment, an officer could come in and he would have to face the fiery depths that he had heard so much about as a child. 

During his first month at the coffee house, as the weather outside goes from cold to colder, Louis learns a lot about the world around him even though he only travels from his flat to his job. Through his fear he had set up a wall between him and every person that he serves, Louis had neglected the relationships that Niall obviously had with so many of the other people, or mollies as they were called. A molly, Niall had told him, was someone like them, someone slight, feminine with the attraction to the same sex. Later that evening Louis had stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom and found the features that favored his mother more than his father, like his hips and pointed features. He wasn’t like the men that he saw about sometimes, the ones with broad shoulders and furred chins. He had also learned that the chapel upstairs was for sudden marriage proposals. Just like everyone else that they had all grown up with, many of them claimed to be married. Though it wasn’t normal, it wasn’t a pastor and a marriage license; Louis had seen many couples climb the stairs, heard them say “I do” and then changed their dirty sheets a few hours later. 

Louis wasn’t really fit for serving the drinks, like Niall had set him up to be; therefore, Ms. Clap had given him the job of stripping the beds at the end of each week. During the week, he cleaned the tables and washed the cups. The water was dirty and more often than naught, Louis wondered why he was meant to clean them anyway. He did though and he enjoyed his job upstairs much more than he did the one at the bar. 

When he worked upstairs, Louis got to meet more people than he did when at the bar. Strangely enough, many people sought refuge upstairs, away from the raucous crowd. He finds friends, though he tried at first not to, in the girls that run the chapel and help him clean the bedrooms. Perrie won him over first, always calling him in to “witness” as Caroline blessed the couple. Well, it wasn’t so much a blessing as reciting the wedding vows that they’d all heard abut before. The couple would say “I do” and Perrie would lead them off to one of the rooms that Louis had just finished cleaning up after the last couple. He mightn’t have been required to change the sheets often, as there was no way they could wash that much, but he did try and straighten blankets over the threadbare mattress. Regardless of his terrible fear, there was a beauty in the sudden weddings that happened fairly often. 

It’s another night upstairs and Louis is lounging against the wall, waiting for the full bedrooms to empty so that he may replenish the oils and straighten the bedding. Perrie is on his left, cigarette in hand and talk of her most recent boyfriend on her lips when _he_ comes upstairs. 

The boy that had ordered the tea off of Louis a few weeks back, the boy that he had seen during his first night in the city. He clambers up the steps like a child that’s just learned to walk when they attempt to go too fast. Louis tries not to chuckle when the toe of the boy’s boot gets hung on the previous step for a moment. He recovers quickly but not before a pink flush the color of Louis’ sister’s hair ribbons appears on his cheekbones. Louis attempts to not find him fascinating but then Perrie has noticed him and breaks her rant to call him over.

“Harry, how’s things?” she opens, reaching out to lace their fingers. Harry’s fingers – giant as they are and longer than any Louis’ ever seen– nearly swallow Perrie’s hand completely. Louis swallows and he’s sure that it’s not the moans that he can hear from the room behind him that light the fire within his chest. He hopes to God that the flush does not work its way up to his cheeks. 

“Well. I’m well. And you?” Louis has met many men during his life, but never one with such a voice as this. Harry’s voice is like a night with never ending wine but no headache the next morning to remind him of the night’s activities. It flows over all of them, brings a wave of comfort in a way, a sort of honey with tea feeling that makes Louis want to lie in bed with him and listen to him recite poetry all day. 

“Fine. Have you met Louis? He’s working upstairs with yours truly, he is” Perrie introduces them, smiling a bit too widely for Louis to feel comfortable. He shakes Harry’s hand all the same, again swallowing thickly at the smoothness of the Harry’s hand. That means that Harry is well off; Louis had only recently learned the difference in the way his hands felt. At his home in Yorkshire, there were not always creams, balms, and soap that smelled of flowers. He hadn’t been bathed in them since his birth. He, like the people of his rank, always smelled of sweat and cheap oils. Only recently had he learnt that softness is a privilege of the wealthy. He found himself embarrassed at the thought of Harry touching his callouses. 

“Louis, it’s a pleasure. I believe we’ve met before, perhaps downstairs.” Harry’s voice is like syrup, the kind that he used to eat on his breakfast. It slides out of his mouth so slowly, as if it has no care, no worry in the world. 

“Likewise. Perhaps. I did work down there a bit, before I decided that upstairs was better for me,” Louis explains, finally realizing that he’s been holding onto Harry’s palm for the entirety of their conversation. He pulls his hand back hastily, breathing in once before raising his eyes to meet Harry’s. Large and green, like walking through the fields that one found up north. He finds himself smiling oddly enough. His palm tingles where they touched.

“That must have been it then. Well, if you will excuse me I have a few things to catch up on in my room,” Harry bids, smiling lightly at the two of them before heading down the hall. Louis knows that all of the bedrooms are full, had led the couples to them himself. At the end of the hall, however, a lone door stood separated from the rest. Louis had never tried to open it, as Ms. Clap had told him that it was not open for use. He watches as Harry fishes in his pocket for a key, inserting it into the lock, twisting and then letting himself inside. Though he could not possibly, Louis swears that he can actually feel the lock click back into place. 

“So, erm, what’s… who is that again?”

“Oh, Harry? He’s good, eh? No one really knows much about him. Ms. Clap just said that he moved in when he was about sixteen like and then she gave him a room. He works out in one of the law offices or something, but he comes back and sleeps here every night.”

“Does he? Well, does he pull from the crowd downstairs any?” Louis is curious, as he’s never known anyone beside himself to never pull from the crowd downstairs. Promiscuity, Louis had learned, was not an unknown concept to the people of this coffee house. 

“Not that anyone’s seen… and we would have, yaknow? We would notice. Caroline reckons he’s straight, but whenever she tries to offer up, he just ignores her. Doesn’t seem very interested. Say… why are you so curious about him?” She turns to meet his eyes, but he’s still looking down at the end of the hall. He sighs, turning back.

“So, erm, tell me about what Collin did again?” 

She lets him change the subject, starting over on the subject as Louis thinks about the boy. The mysterious Harry whom never pulls and has lived at Ms. Clap’s since he was sixteen. 

“Perrie,” he cuts her off midsentence, “How old is Harry?” 

She eyes him funnily, before answering, “Don’t know. Probably twenty like the rest of us.” 

He nods, watching as the bedroom door before them opens and an older man walks out quickly. He’s followed by a smiling younger man, a much younger man. Louis grimaces, before turning back to Perrie. 

“Back to work, I suppose. Tell me more about Collin later yeah?” 

“His name’s James, you twat. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to.” 

++

Later that night, Louis lies in bed with Liam at his side. In the bed across the room, Louis can hear Niall and Zayn whispering to one another. He attempts to block them out, thinking back to meeting Harry. Louis knew what being forced out did to a person, and he knew that Harry, if what Perrie said was true, would probably not be working in a public place such as an office. One did not fall from society but maintain ties. Louis knew that well enough. Under the mattress, he had stuffed many unfinished letters to his mother and sisters. He had written them lies and the truth, but nothing of coming home. 

He was not meant to come home, could not for people had suspected him for a while. They would be rewarded in their truth were he to return with his sins known to others. With this knowledge about him, Louis knew that there was no possibility of Harry being known. Perhaps, as Perrie had also said, he was not interested in the opposite sex. Perhaps he was like the Kendall that he had met a few nights ago with no attraction to anyone beyond a simple romance. He shifts in the mattress, shoves Liam over a bit so that he may stretch his legs to their full length for a moment. In the other mattress, the boys have stopped whispering but he can see their bodies moving in the moonlight. 

He closes his eyes, thinks of sleep and not big hands or green eyes. 

++  
The next time that Louis meets Harry, he’s in the same spot as before. Harry climbs the stairs slowly, books in hand and tea in the other. Just as before, the toe of his boot catches on the top step and he stumbles. His tea does not move, but the books are lost. They fall from his large hand and land right before Louis’ feet. Louis looks up, watching as Harry’s shoulders droop and he begins to kneel down to gather the books. 

“Here. Here I’ll get them,” Louis says, falling to the floor as gracefully as possible. He stacks the books, seven in total, and stands to meet the ever-so-green eyes that haven’t left him in his endeavors. 

“Thank you, Louis,” He says, opening his palm for the books but Louis is curious. And he’s never been one to hold back when he is able to jump ahead. 

“That’s alright. I don’t want you to drop them again. Here; I can carry them down for you.” He offers it easily, praying not to be shot down for such a simple offer. Harry’s hair, flat as ever like it’s just been relieved from the weight of a wig and dripping wet, is staining the color of his jacket. His cheeks are pale this time, tinged pink at the height of his cheeks bones. Louis wants, for the first time in his life, to place kisses along someone’s cheekbones and nose, to bring a flush to the surface and a smile to their lips. He breathes out in a weird way, watching as Harry smiles at him. 

“Suppose so if you don’t mind.” 

Harry leads them to the end of the hall, fingering for the key within his pocket and bringing it up to unlock the last door in the hall. Louis feels the weight of such an opportunity because he’d asked Perrie earlier that day if anyone had ever been inside of Harry’s room. She had told him no. He is the first and he feels uncomfortably comfortable with being the first. On some level, even though he knows nothing of Harry, he feels a connection with the floral coated man. 

Harry flicks the key, turning the doorknob and letting them both inside of his small room. It’s not unlike the ones that Louis cleans on a daily basis. There is a large bed against the same wall as the door, a nightstand being the only separation. Across from the bed is a wardrobe and full-length mirror. Directly across from the doorway, there is a window and a desk sat in front of it. On the other wall, a canvas has been set up and a small stand with paints and a couch beside it. While Louis stands in the doorway taking in the room before him, Harry removes his coat and sits his tea on the nightstand. 

“I… I can take the books now,” he says, reaching for the stack. Louis holds his hands out, returning Harry’s books while his eyes float over the long brush strokes on the portrait that is staining the canvas. 

“I… uhm… that’s, that’s me in the – in the painting.” 

Louis had spent the majority of his life being told how lovely he was. His mother and her friends had always loved his delicate features, his strong cheekbones and curved nose. He’d seen himself before, had admired his own reflection. He knows what he looks like. The canvas leans on its stand and his own reflection is living and breathing and staring right back at him as he hovers within the doorway. 

His eyes float over to Harry, brows raised in a curious manner that surely leaves him looking ridiculous. Harry, who is now standing in a mere shirt and pants, smiles slightly at him, blushes in a way that makes Louis feel a bit warm and smiley. He tries not to be too fond of the weird boy that has painted him. 

“I… I hope you do not find it odd; I was just quite captivated with the way your eyes looked and then I had painted you before I had even realized. I had never… It’s not unusual. I’ve painted people from the house before but… I just… No one has ever seen and I hope you are not… I hope you do not find it odd, find _me_ odd.” 

“No I do not find it odd… I have never seen…” _Myself looks so lovely_ he thinks, bringing a hand up to close the door behind him. He leans back against it, “Err, you paint beautifully.” 

“I believe that it helps when the subject is beautiful.” 

Louis feels a bit too warm in his cheeks, butterflies in his stomach and fear in his heart. He smiles at the other man and thinks of what Perrie would say. He throws the thought from his mind and moves to sit on the small couch that is set up beside the easel. On the canvas, he is painted as a noble, as if Harry had imagined him in Yorkshire with freshly sewn clothes and sweet smelling creams. He doesn’t wear a wig in the painting, but he does have a floral coat, one not unlike the ones he’d seen the painter wear before. 

“Do… do you paint often? Like the people that come in downstairs? Do you paint them often?” His eyes continue to trace over the painting, noticing the lines beside his eyes and the slight yellow of his teeth. 

“Sometimes if someone has a different way about them. Not that often though… only… Well, I haven’t painted someone from the house that I’ve never spoken to before.” 

Louis’ eyes follow Harry as he sits down beside him, crossing his legs at the knee and placing an arm around the back of the couch. His fingers are stained with the paints, tinted a blue at the tips. Louis briefly considers that his fingers could actually be frost bitten because it is absolutely frozen outside. 

“I… I am glad that you have spoken to me now. Perhaps that makes it less odd, weird maybe.” 

Harry’s eyes, green and full of life like Louis has never seen before, shine in a way that makes Louis feel completely new. It’s like he has never been taking deep breaths before this moment. He finds himself smiling.

++

Snow covers the London streets before long and Louis is left to layer his shirts and unpack his mittens from the bottom of his knapsack. The house gets busier during the winter it seems, more men and women piling in the door to share love between them. Louis supposes it has something to do with body heat and getting lonelier during the holidays. He had found himself longing for someone to wrap him up, to pull him closer as Christmas approached. He tried not to think of the other part of the holiday, the part that he had really always spent with his mother and sisters. That part made him much too upset, made him tear up in the bathtub when he had to spend time by himself for the first time in the day. 

That was truly the best thing about working at Ms. Clap’s coffee house; he was constantly surrounded by people. Not to mention, he often would follow Harry down to his room when he returned for the night. Harry would always get in from… somewhere he hadn’t told Louis about yet, and let Louis carry his books to his room where they would lounge about on his sofa and talk about anything and everything it seemed. Conversation flowed with Harry in a way that it had never done with any of his friends, even Grimshaw. And everything had seemed easy with Grimshaw… at first at least. 

Now, as he slips off his shows and curls his feet under him, he watches Harry as he brushes navy strips over his canvas. The muscles of his back flex with each sweep, the bones flexing underneath the thin material of his shirt. Louis desperately tries not to notice it. 

“Christmas has always been my favorite holiday, you know? My sister and I used to make these biscuits, gingerbread ones. They were always warm, even after they’d been in the kitchen for a few days. I would always sneak a few under my sleeve to eat before bed,” Harry laughs, peaking at Louis over his shoulder. 

“That’s lovely. I remember making cakes for Christmas. My sisters would be filthy after,” he laughs. “My mother would always makes us all go up for baths and when we came back downstairs in our pajamas, we’d each have a biscuit laid out for us.” 

His eyes burn with the memory, can remember how his mother would hug him tightly before handing over his sweet. She would always smell like the cakes, like their tree and baubles and the fire. She was like a living and breathing Christmas angel, something unreal, almost too good to be in the world. The knot in his throat doesn’t fall away when he swallows, so he turns back to watch Harry’s back as he paints. He’s formed trees on the canvas, has painted them into leaf-less branches that droop with unpainted snow. Louis can relate.

“Why do more people come around at Christmas, do you think? I’ve notice the house fills up more now than it did when I first started.” 

“Well, in my experience,” and Louis can feel the tremor in Harry’s voice at the bottom of his stomach, “most of us aren’t exactly welcomed home with open arms.” 

The silence is deafening, the only sound being the _swoosh_ of the paintbrush as Harry paints in the faceless people finding their way through the frozen streets. Louis finds himself standing up from the couch, bare feet freezing as they meet the cold floor. His hand, small against the broadness of Harry’s back, slides over his shirt and he gently pushes the brush down to the table. Harry’s face is blank as he watches and, not for the first time, Louis notices the sadness that has settled within the hazel flecks of his eyes. 

His eyes flit over Harry’s features, looking for any distaste or hesitation, before he leans in and places the softest of kisses against the curve of Harry’s cheekbone. They haven’t done anything beyond the slight cuddle that one-day when Louis had been the one to help a young boy, a few years his junior, after he had been left to fend for himself after a particularly rough afternoon. Louis had never wiped someone’s tears, someone that wasn’t related to him, and he’d been more than a little fragile after. Harry had wiped his tears away later that afternoon. 

Louis remembered what Perrie had told him about Harry moving into Margaret’s house quite early, and he could put two and two together. His lips brush over the bone, pressing gently while his hands cup Harry’s jaw, tilting him just so. Louis pulls back, eyes sweeping over Harry’s face to find any resistance. There is none, so he leans back in and lets his lips press just so over Harry’s. 

Kissing Harry is unlike anything Louis has ever done before. He’d only kissed two people before. Hannah, when he was sixteen and terrified of the feelings that kept him awake at night, and Nick, who had left his lips swollen with his bruising presses. Those had kept Louis on his toes, had forced him to explore different parts of him. Kissing Harry doesn’t force him to do anything; it opens the window, allows him to explore freely. Harry’s lips part, tongue pressing gently and then slipping to lick at the sharp points of Louis’ teeth. He breathes in heavily through his nose, one hand slipping down to grip at Harry’s neck. His other hand slips lower, hand cupping over Harry’s breast and he feels the swell of Harry’s nipple underneath his thumb. 

Harry’s kisses the way that he paints, with an end in mind. His hands, stained with paint, find their place on Louis’ hips where he squeezes at the thick bits of Louis. He breaks the kiss with a slow suck on Harry’s bottom lip, moving so that his face is tucked into Harry’s neck and his hands move to fist in his shirt. 

“I don’t like Christmas anymore. I can’t go home” he whispers and part of him hopes that Harry doesn’t hear it. However, he knows that he did when Harry stands from his stool and wraps his arms around Louis’ smaller frame. 

“You can be home with me, you know? This… it took me a long time to make this home but I think maybe now being home is more than just a house and your family. Home can be a person too, or a feeling even.” 

Louis’ eyes grow heavy after such a rush of feelings and there are so many questions left on his tongue, but he settles to follow Harry’s feet as he leads them to the bed. He falls back easily and curls into Harry’s chest as if he’s been doing it his entire life. His eyes fall shut before he can even think of asking Harry about what had happened, about how this house was his home now. 

++

After their kiss in the early days of December, Louis found himself in Harry’s bed more often than not. It’s on a day in early January, his birthday long forgotten and swept under the rug just as he wanted, that Louis finds himself covering a shift for Niall downstairs. He manages not to spill more than two glasses of ale, and he finds that pouring coffee and tea are much easier than he originally thought that they would be. Men flood through the doors, a woman breaking up their stream every few hours, and he watches as they all come for a drink, find a partner and head upstairs. 

It’s when he’s handing a drink over the bar to a blond man, smiling to himself at the curves of the man’s mustache. When he looks up, he catches a glimpse of a high quiff. He’s seen it before, has ran his fingers through that hair before. He tries not to be absolutely terrified when he recognizes the man across the room as he stands behind the bar. 

++

 

Three nights later, Harry and he are curled up on the couch in his room. He hadn’t told Harry about what happened in Doncaster, hadn’t really seen a reason to before. Now… Now that he had seen Nick, and there’s no way that it couldn’t have been, he knew that telling Harry was the next logical step. He could remember the cruel, cold words as they spilled from Nick’s lips. Phrases that chilled Louis’ blood and made it feel as if his lungs were full of water straight from the Thames. 

Louis tried to block out the words, tried to revel in the moment as Harry trailed his lips, pink and thick, across Louis’ jaw. His teeth would slip from behind the skin every few kisses, pressing gentle bites into the skin that would always result in a hushed gasp. Louis couldn’t help but feel completely overwhelmed at Harry’s attention. Harry was nothing like Nick had ever been. He touched Louis reverently, unlike Nick’s rough tugs at his belt or the buttons of his shirt. Harry cradled Louis just as he did a paintbrush, allowing it to move beneath his fingers, to rise and fall at its on will. He was merely an extension of the brush. 

That’s what being with Harry felt like for Louis. He listened to his opinions on the people of the house, on his thoughts of the people of London, of his childhood. Harry would watch him through all of it, drawing circles on the thin skin of Louis’ wrist and responding carefully at the end of each story. Louis found that months passed easily in Harry’s company, and he noticed that falling in love with Harry was nothing like falling in love with Nick. 

“Do you remember when I had to cover for Niall a few weeks ago?” Harry hums against Louis’ pulse point, fingers dancing over his side underneath his shirt. The coolness of his fingertips does nothing to cool down Louis’ overheated skin. He always finds himself a bit too warm when Harry is near him. 

“Well, I saw someone… someone I knew from home,” he trails off, feeling Harry’s lips draw back from his skin. He appears before him, brows furrowed slightly as he waits for Louis to continue. “He… Well, his name is Nick and he and I were together up north.” 

Harry breathes in then, and keeps the same pensive frog-like face on. Louis can’t help but feel the need to kiss the pout off of his strawberry-colored lips. 

“I don’t think he saw me, which is good.” Harry’s frown is replaced with a concerned grimace like look that Louis still manages to find attractive. God, he’s in too deep and it’s only been about two or three months. 

“Why is that good?”

“Well, Nick is the reason that I live with Liam. He…” he takes a deep breath before he can continue. “We dated when I lived in Donny and we… well I thought we were in love, but one night I called around his house and found him with Douglas, a friend of ours. I told him that we shouldn’t be together anymore and I thought he would be okay. He hadn’t ever been very controlling or anything like that. Then I was leaving a bar in town one night and he followed me and threatened to… to tell people about me if I were to break up with him. Of course, I didn’t understand. I mean how could he expose me without exposing himself?”

Harry watches with extreme attention, eyes tracing over every inch of Louis face. Louis never meets his eyes, but focuses on the strings that hang from the neck of his shirt, that should lace up. 

“He had this letter, one I had given him ages ago. We had just started dating and he’d insisted on trading letter, said it was very romantic and it would give him something to hold on to were we to ever be separated. Of course, I never thought that he would turn all of it against me. I… I had to leave everything. You know what they do to people like us! To sodomites! They kill us, Harry. I had to leave my mother, my sisters. Everything. I had to leave everything because of him and now… now he’s here.”

The tears fall freely from his eyes as he blinks and his breaths become ragged. Harry reaches out, taking Louis into his arms so that the smaller man can bury his face in Harry’s neck. Louis wraps his arms around Harry’s waist, tugging himself into the other man’s lap so that they are closer and all of his tears sink into the fabric of Harry’s shirt. He tries not to let the sobs overtake him, but he can’t help but feel as if he’ll never be rid of Nick. He would be stuck with the absolute fear that, at any moment, he would be sentenced to death because he preferred men to women. 

Harry’s eyes burn with tears as Louis cries into him, his hand following the curve of Louis’ spine in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. At only sixteen, Harry had learned how to comfort himself. He had avoided the troubled men downstairs because he never hoped to get wrapped up in their personal lives. With Louis, it had been different. The Louis that he had first met wasn’t quite so emotional. He was a bit different, not quite loud but funny. He cracked jokes about Harry’s paintings, jokes that he probably shouldn’t have found quite so funny since he painted them. Louis was different because he hadn’t seemed to be like the men from the house. His problems weren’t something that Harry wanted to avoid. They were so similar to his own… How could he avoid them?

“When…” He coughs to get the words out. “When I was sixteen, I met this guy. Winston was his surname. He had…he had this club down the way, more south I guess, and he let me get drinks all the time. I would stop in after school sometimes or if my dad was being a bit mean. We were so close. He would listen to all of my problems about school and I trusted to tell him about kissing one of the boys after football one day. He… He didn’t seem shocked. He just patted me on the back, and then he sent me home.” 

Louis’ sobs had subsided as Harry spoke. He curled closer into his chest, arms clenched tight about Harry’s thin waist. 

“I came home from school the next day and he was at my house. He’d told my parents that I was perhaps going to become a sodomite, that they should fix me while they could… before I had done anything unforgivable. He had pretended to be so caring, so loving. I’d… Of course, I had just denied all of it. I told them that it was all untrue, that he had coerced me into saying those things. They _were_ true. I did kiss one of my mates after practice but I didn’t… I didn’t know yet that I only preferred men. He had never told me he was married. Of course, my dad was never going to believe me. I remember my sister just watched on the stairs when they forced me to leave. I was only sixteen and she did nothing. She just sat there and watched them…” 

Harry doesn’t cry like Louis did, but brings a hand up to worry the longer hairs at the back of Louis’ neck. 

“I’m sorry that I opened all of this up. I just… I was so scared when I saw him downstairs you know? I didn’t want anything to happen and you wouldn’t know anything. You didn’t have to share. I didn’t want you to feel pressured.” 

“Louis, no. I… you know you share when you’re comfortable, when it makes sense. It makes sense for me to tell you all of this now. I want you to know about me. I like you.” 

He can’t help himself, so Louis leans forward to kiss Harry. He presses his lips softly at first, testing that Harry is okay after their emotional conversation. Harry wastes no time, kissing him back with gusto. Their kiss doesn’t end so Louis adjusts so that he is straddling Harry instead of sitting across his lap. Harry’s hands slide down the slope of his back, brushing over his bum through his trousers but not grabbing hold of it. Louis finds himself lost in the kiss, his hands trailing the length of Harry’s chest and sliding up to cup at the back of his neck. He tangles his fingers in the brown curled bits at the end, tugging when Harry bites at his lip. Harry’s hips rock up, brushing in a way that makes Louis toes curl and his breath rush out harshly. 

“Again. Do it again.” 

Harry’s hips move smoothly against Louis’, rocking them together in a steady way that drives them both crazy. His pants feel particularly tight; so Louis reaches down to undo his trousers before moving to undo Harry’s. 

“This is okay?” Harry asks, lips the darkest red that Louis’ ever seen. They’re so sinful that he gets caught up imagining them in different ways. His fingers tangle together against Harry’s flies. 

“I’m okay. Are you okay?” His pupils are blown so wide that the deep forest color is lost, replaced with a lustful stare. Harry nods, pulling back to stand and let Louis slide from the couch. He gestures to the bed before going back to remove his clothes. Louis follows, falling back on the bed and then arching up to tugs his trousers down his legs. He’s not wearing any underwear, but the thought doesn’t come to mind until he’s tossed his pants to the floor and looks up to meet Harry’s eyes but they are in other places. He briefly thinks to cover himself, but he gets distracted by Harry’s bare legs. Harry’s thighs are thick, meaty in a different way than his. He licks his lips and raises his arms to pull Harry on top of him. 

Their hips slot together just right, making them both gasp into the dark of the room. Louis’ hands tremble where they grip at Harry’s naked hips. He angles his cock so that it slides just so against Louis’. Harry’s breath is hot where it hits his ear, teeth raking along the curve. “Do you…?” he trails off, hips circling in a way that completes the sentence even though his mouth cannot. 

He nods the best he can, lips sliding over Harry’s pulse point while his hands slide through the sweat that has gathered in a pool at his lower back. Harry sits up, knees sliding so that he can straddle Louis. He reaches over for the nightstand and fishes in the drawer for a moment. He pulls a vial, not unlike the ones that Louis replaces in the rooms down the hall. As Harry uncorks the bottle, Louis’ eyes follow the muscles of his arms, the dainty curve to his waist followed by the thick skin at his hips. Harry is unlike any man that Louis has ever dreamed of. He’s completely unique, different in a way that makes Louis’ toes curl before Harry even finished slicking up his fingers. 

He knees his way down the bed, gently tapping Louis’ thighs so that they spread to make room for him. With a quick nod from Louis, Harry reaches up to press at the center of the other man. As Harry’s fingers press and slide inside of him, Louis wraps his fist around himself and pulls at himself. He struggles to keep in the present, feeling a bit swept up in the moment as his hips work back down on Harry’s fingers. It’s not long before Harry’s fingers are swapped for an empty feeling. As the dull head of Harry nudges Louis, he finds his fingers lacing with Harry’s. He almost doesn’t feel the press of Harry’s inside him because he is too caught up in the soft press of Harry’s lips. 

++

Harry rolls over onto his side, fingers trailing over the smooth skin of Louis’ chest. Sweat is cooling on their skin and the moon is shining through the window, painting lines of pale light over the floor. Harry walks his fingers over Louis’ hard nipples, up through the hair under his arms, and down the line of his arm as it rests over his eyes. He circles the wrist with his fingers, pulling it away so that he can see Louis’ eyes and the dark pink blush that stains his cheekbones. 

“Louis, I don’t… I don’t feel right doing what we did without telling you how I feel,” He starts, bed shifting beneath him as Louis moves onto his side to face him. “I think I love you, maybe even a lot. I’ve never had someone who could just watch me paint, listen to me talk about the novels I’ve read. I’m… People aren’t often patient with me. I really… I just want you to know that.” 

“Harry. Haz, I’ve never felt like this with someone before. What I had with Nick was completely different than this. I had no one else then; it was all about knowing that I wasn’t alone. And somehow, even with Nick constantly by my side, I never lost that feeling. It wasn’t until that day that Perrie introduced in the hall that it started to sink away. I don’t feel like I have to go through anything alone. It’s like… even when you aren’t with me, you still are somehow. Is that weird? Does it make sense?” 

Harry leans forward to press a kiss to Louis’ lips. They keep the kiss simple, sweat still drying on their skin. Harry pulls back and bites at his lips a bit nervously. 

“Louis, do you… You’re sure that Nick was downstairs the other night? Really sure?”

He thinks back to the night before and shivers for a completely different reason than he’d been shivering a few hours earlier. He nods. 

“Then I have an idea.”

++

A few nights later, Harry doesn’t get his tea and take it up to his room. He stays at the bar and waits. Louis had described Nick in detail, from the high hair to the arrogant way of speaking. He knew where he was, could see him flirting with a man a few bar stools down. Harry sips his tea and shows no interest in Nick, unlike the men around him who have all turned to stare at the mysterious stranger. Harry could admit, after listening to him talk for a few minutes, that Nick did have some positive qualities. He was charismatic, funny and handsome. No wonder all of the men found him so desirable. 

Nick flirts with the man for a bit before leaving, moving down the bar to the stool beside Harry. He sits with his back slouched over, like he’s not a bit worried about anything. It’s like he hasn’t come here to ruin Louis’ life. Harry had never been one to believe the he’s-out-to-get-me stories, but he had also lived for the past five years in Margaret’s house. It was a home to him when he had been without. The idea of anyone taking that away scared him. 

“I’ve seen you around before. You live upstairs right?”

Harry knows better than to tell him too much. So he just nods, then says, “Sometimes.” 

Nick laughs to himself like he thinks Harry is lying, like he knows everything. He nods to himself, turns to look around the room for a minute before he turns to face Harry. He doesn’t look up.

“You know Tomlinson? Louis Tomlinson?” 

Harry stills, teacup halfway to his mouth. He sips it and then places it back down on the bar. He’s careful with the way he replies before answering with, “I’ve seen him around.” 

Nick laughs again, slapping Harry on the back before he leans forward to get close to his face. “I know that you know about me and Louis, okay? I’m doing this for you. You seem like a nice guy, Harry. I don’t want to hurt you.” 

He pauses for a minute. 

“There’s going to be a raid.” 

He whispers it so lowly that Harry is caught completely off guard. He starts to turn to speak to Nick but the man is already standing with his coffee. He drops his handkerchief, leans down to get it and says, “second week of February.” When he makes eye contact with Harry, there is only fiery humor as if he’s making it all up. Making it all into a joke. Harry’s stomach drops to his feet. 

“If you leave Tomlinson here, I won’t name you. Do you understand?” 

Harry’s plan, he thinks, has completely backfired. He was supposed to trap Grimshaw, not be threatened. He feels a cold chill run up his spine, nipping at the places that have begun to sweat due to his nerves. The other man is gone before he can even speak. 

++

Louis is curled up in bed by the time that Harry is able to make his way upstairs. His stomach feels sick with the knowledge that Nick hasn’t been here for a week and already he has torn Harry’s life to shreds, with only one sentence. He peels off his clothes and leaves them in the floor, sits on the edge of the bed and holds his head in his hands.

Could it be possible that Nick was lying? That he was trying to make is so that Harry would leave Louis, so that maybe he would go back with Nick? Maybe he should leave Louis. He shook his head. Even though it would be easier to leave Louis, it was much too crazy. He liked Louis way too much, loved him really. He couldn’t leave him. Over his shoulder, he looks to see Louis curled up under the sheets. 

He stands to walk over to his easel and moves a new canvas to the stand. He doesn’t really know how it happens but he ends up with the bloodiest reds, midnight blues, and violent oranges and somehow it turns into exactly how it feels about having to leave his home of five years.

++

“A raid?”

Harry had told Louis to gather all of his friends at their apartment because he had news that was detrimental to all of them. Of course, he told Louis about what Nick had said the night before when Louis woke up to Harry’s paint-stained fingers drawing circles on his chest. With only a look into Harry’s eyes, Louis had known that what had happened downstairs was not good.

It’s Niall that repeats the word incredulously. He, Liam and Zayn are sat on the couch wearing fairly similar looks of furrowed eyebrows and disbelieving eyes. It wasn’t Harry’s idea to tell anyone, but Louis’. He didn’t want anyone to be caught up in the raid, to be arrested – or worse --, if what Nick was saying was true. They had already moved some of Harry’s things from his apartment. 

“We’ll just have to stop going.” 

Liam speaks next, wringing his hands nervously and not looking anyone in the eye. Louis’ knows that Liam must be praying for Zayn to agree and that they can all catch a train somewhere before the end of the week. As much as Louis hates to admit it, he’s sure that Liam is sort of hoping that Niall will choose to stay. Liam isn’t mean enough to hope Niall gets caught. But, Louis thinks, that he could very well be wishing that Niall would choose to stay, that Zayn would leave with them… that he could finally have his chance. 

“We are planning to buy our tickets down to Brighton. We’re leaving in two weeks. He said the raid was the second week of February. We definitely don’t want to be in town for it,” Harry explains, palm sweaty where it rests against Louis’. He can practically feel the nerves that are covering the walls better than the paint that’s already on them.

“You don’t have to decide now, obviously. It could all be a lie, but you know what happened to the club that got raided last month.”

Of course they all remembered. The police had arrested at least thirty acting sodomites and only half of them were more than ashes at this point. The fear of that alone is what kept Louis and Harry up at night packing all of their things into suitcases and old bags. 

++

Over the next week, Harry found himself slowly moving all of his stuff into Louis’ flat. He was terrified to sleep in his room at Margaret’s house. With the first of February behind him, and only a small celebration with Louis and a tiny slice of cake that Margaret had made him special, Harry had officially moved all of his things into bags and was ready to make the trip to Brighton.

Louis was not so thrilled. None of his friends, not even Liam, had committed to the trip. He hated the idea of leaving them behind, leaving them to their death. That’s what it felt like, though they could obviously just stay out of the club that night. Louis and Harry weren’t allowed that leisure. They had to leave town because Nick knew their names and would surely turn them in beyond the raid if they weren’t found within any of the many rooms. 

Harry’s making his way upstairs for the last night when he spots Nick in the hallway, leaning against the wall and talking to a girl that Harry’s never seen before. He tries not to make eye contact as he passes, but he can feel Nick’s eyes on his back as he makes his way up the stairs. He unlocks his room and then shuts the door behind himself. He’s alone tonight, since Louis had elected to spend the night at his apartment. Now as Harry stands alone in the room, he feels the need to leave too. It’s like a pressure forcing him to open the door and leave the room. He’s back downstairs before he even knows what he’s done. 

He makes the turn up towards Louis’ flat, letting himself in and heading back to their rooms where Louis is sat at the table. 

“What are you doing here?” Louis asks, but he’s cut off by a loud bang from below them. 

All of them stand, and Harry just notices that Liam was sat at the table too. It’s like there is a ton of screaming from down the hall, but not like anything Harry has ever heard before. He runs to the window and looks out, but he can’t see much of anything. 

“Is there another way to get on the street besides the one by the club?” He asks, pulling the thin curtain over the window. 

Liam nods almost dumbly as he watches Louis and Harry make their way back to the bedroom. He follows them, watching as they grab a few bags but not all of the ones that they had brought with them. 

“Liam, grab some clothes. We have to go.” 

He springs into action, trying not to think of Zayn, wherever he is. Liam shoves his clothes into an old rucksack, finishing it off with a picture of his mother and sisters. His father had given it to him before he’d moved to London, before he was forced to move to London. Taking a shaky breath and closing the ties of the rucksack, he meets Harry and Louis at the door. 

“You’ll have to lead the way, Liam. And it can’t be obvious that we are leaving. They’ll not even question us if it looks like we are escaping.” 

Each of the boys has one bag over his shoulder and their coats buttoned up to the neck. Liam opens the door and leads the way to the train station. 

++

Brighton is nothing like Louis had imagined it. The beaches, even in the summer, were made of stones and cold water. They were still wrapping scarves around their necks to look at the water. It wasn’t like London. There was no smoke to gather in your lungs or eyes when you went outside. There wasn’t the constant fear of exposure. Brighton was nothing like London. 

About two weeks after they had left, Niall and Zayn had shown up on their front step, looking worse for wear. They had been caught up in the raid, but had managed to escape down the back alley. And they met them with the best story. Through his relationship with the police, Nick had managed to turn himself in without his knowledge. When he led the police into Margaret Clap’s molly house, he was the first arrested and that fact alone probably shouldn’t have made Louis quite so happy. 

“Will you shut the window?” Harry says, knocking Louis out of his thoughts. “The seagulls are so loud that I can’t hear myself think.” 

Louis stands from the desk, closing the window before walking over to Harry. The giant quilt that he’d lain over the top that morning was pushed to the floor so that Harry was only covered by the sheet. There was a giant bruise blossoming over the hip that was still uncovered. 

Louis has moved two times so that he could be himself, but he found that he didn’t have to move to be himself. He only had to be with Harry. Harry was home in a completely different way than a house was. Climbing under the sheet and tucking an arm over Harry’s thin waist, he breathes in the scent of his hair and the sweat from the night before. The sun rises through the window and Louis drifts back off to sleep.


End file.
